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| Sheshomaru Ractican Llothsbane | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 21 2011, 04:57:25 PM (253 Views) | |
| Nonune | Dec 21 2011, 04:57:25 PM Post #1 |
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(Ok, guy clearly not finished. Didn’t even really know if it would work, its a whacky No creation. But, I did the history, will polish it up. Let me know if I should rework for another race or if I should just scrap the whole project.) Playby|Image credit[/ALIGN] Name: Sheshomaru Ractican Llothsbane, born Sheshomaru Ractican d’Ormus Homeworld: Lost (World Sphere from within a cluster of Nebulae which is nearly untravelable.) Nickname/Alias: The Cold One, Sadist, Bastard, Lord, The Fallen, the Slave Prince,Sheshomaru Ractican d’Ormus Date of Birth: Faction: Sith Rank: Species: Drow Height: five foot six inches Weight: Hair Color: Obsidian black Skin Color: Black, pure black of nightmare Appearance: (Two Paragraphs Minimum) Personality: Cold, dark and sadistic are the three words used most describe him with, along with a shiver. Whether the shiver is one of desire, need or fear depends on the person. As a dark elf he is convinced of his own superiority, as a slave he was of the worst caliber of subservience known. He has spent a century developing his skills and they are honed to a deadly sharpness that brings his clients crawling back begging for more, something he quite enjoys turning the tables on the being holding his leash. To those weaker and unable to defend themselves, fellow slaves and children however he is seen as the kind older cousin. The one who will read them their favorite story with a patience that seems bottomless, who will stand up and tend a slave’s wounds even when threatened not to, the one who will kill a slave out of kindness not sadism when said wounds are to grievous to recover from. Ever since he acquired his freedom, through less than noble means, he has taken to gathering slaves and the castoffs of society to his side. People who’s lives would have been misery and are slaves to him in name only. However, beyond what many might see as a weakness in him, he never forgets about those things people once deemed his equals and peers had done to him. Never forgets what a hundred years of slavery made him crawl through. Weaknesses and Strengths: (One Paragraph Minimum) Equipment - Several sets of clothing, ranging from perfectly tailored suits of high fashion to rather skimpy, depending on a client's wishes. All designed perfectly to show off and give hints of what lies underneath. -Several slaves, often children whom are allowed to play freely, or older slaves who would be sentenced to a death sentence of work at Kessel, through no fault of their own. - Force Powers - - - History: Sheshomaru Ractican Llothsbane, born Sheshomaru Ractican d’Ormus, was born within the Kiax nebula, a gorgeous if deadly nebula in the Yarith Sector. His world is relatively unknown outside the nebula, mainly because of a pair of stars which went supernova at close to the same time in an era lost to recorded history, thus creating the nebula. These stars remain as a pair of vibrantly pulsing white dwarf stars within the nebula. Sometime after this an ancient race, perhaps the Rakata though this is unconfirmed, gathered the resources left to the only star within the nebula reorganizing them into the shape of a World Sphere. A singular planet that wrapped around an entire star, with the biological “crust” on the inner sphere and a technilogical wonder on the outer. Whether this was an experiment or a simple wonder is unknown to the inhabitants of the world which came from three of the worlds orbiting that particular star. They simply knew that one day the horizon went from curving down out of sight, to curving up into the sky. A complex set of plates were installed around the sun which rotated and provided the symmetry of the sky, and life continued. For thousands of years of history these races warred with each other, loved one another and existed without any knowledge of a world outside their home. Born the fourth son of a matriarchal society, Sheshomaru was nearly instantly a second class citizen and came into a house of royalty without any fanfare. His people had long since abandoned the surface to the weaker races, though in truth this was simply a propaganda tool, his people had been exiled into the crust to die. Instead they had flourished, using their magical abilities to transform great underground caverns into wonders to the eye. While they called these abilities magic, they were infact simply a form of Force use that involved using words to focus a mind. Within a century he had grown into maturity, and although he possessed a keen mind and quick agile body, he found that no matter how he excelled he would never match his older brothers for praise. Let alone his older sisters who used him as a pawn in their games to gain power. It wasn’t exile but pure rage that led him into the caverns that surrounded his home. Unlike others of his kind, his rage didn’t burn hot, but cold, and instead of heading towards the warm surface, his exploration turned to the colder depths. For weeks at a time he was gone, and when he was punished and tortured, this became months and years. He eschewed his higher education, learning nothing of the Magics of his people, concentrating on a way out. He Needed a way out, and knew he would find one. Slowly the radiation seeping in from the outer nebula infused his body, calling him outward, mutating him in subtle ways. His blood became colder and colder, and he found he could survive even extreme cold, though fire still hurt. His eyes, already adapted to the dark became more focused till he could see better in the dark. Hearing focused to the point that he could hear the slithering and scratching of the horrors that lived closer to the surface. Of all the skills of his race, the only one he honed was his ability at stealth. He was barely armed with the legendary scimitars and chain of his race, adamantium by make and indestructible to his knowledge. This against a hellwurm or the skittering giant spiders which would see him as nothing but a fly was like a blaster pistol against a rancor. But he could hide, slow his already frozen heart to a soft beat of nothing, hold his breath for minutes on end and breathe minimally until danger passed. His senses sharpened through the Force to be able to sense these dangers and to find those cracks that would best hide him. Being of a semi imortallity, unable to die of old age, these wanderings in the wilderness became decades without another person to speak to. But after what seemed an age, he is unsure of the ammount of time, enough time to loose one’s mind again and again, and find it again, he found the most unlikely place. Left behind by the race that built the World Sphere was a small shuttle pod. Barely an engine, an outer hull, enough deflector shielding to fly through space, hyperdrive and cockpit. As he entered ancient sensors came to life, recognizing life, if not a particular type of life. The door snapped shut faster than he knew could be possible trapping him. Programmed to take the life to a nearby habitable life in the advent of emergency the pod shortly launched itself, giving him a view of the outer surface of his home planet for the first and last time. Lights sputtered into existance as he was hurled through the nebula on a predetermined path, the pilot droid only changing path to avoid the stellar phenomena. His world receded and was lost and a gas filled the chamber as his lifesigns became agitated. Some voice from somewhere told him this was for his own good, albeit in a language he did not understand. He awoke to find a vessel pulling him in, proximity alarms exploding in a noise that felt like it was splitting his head. He had no concept of space or what the vessel was, only that it was massive. To this day he has not found its like, although he admits he has no recollection of the exact amount of time he spent within slavery, there were weeks upon weeks of simply pain, where time ceased to matter. Upon the hangar of the deck he found a sith acolyte, a student of the Mistress, his first Mistress. She had Sensed she would find something here foreign to her, something to aid her apprentice, or was it her new apprentice. The Acolyte ordered him, what he did not know at the time, later when he had learned the language he found the idiot had ordered him to kneel before the Sith Lady. He did not understand the man, and when the Acolyte pulled out his lightsaber, now that was something that Sheshomaru understood. Violence. With a sadistic grin ripped and torn from nightmare, he pulled his scimitar. The glowing blade did not phase him, his brothers had had worse. It was simply a weapon, albeit a weapon he did not understand. But one swing was all the man needed. Indestructable his people called the metal. It was butter compared to the power of plasma and the lightsaber burned through it just as swiftly. Pride-filled rage filled him, and for the first time without using the words, he called down a sphere of complete darkness around them, drowning out even the glow of the lightsaber. The scream of rage and bloodspray that came out was all the Sith Lady needed to hear and see. She had found a new apprentice, one that would serve her much better than the last. A telekinetic desperate net had sliced the man to shreds, but also destroyed the pod that had saved him from his world, his only way back. But Sheshomaru was not the type to look back. She taught him everything, and he taught her the world of pain. There is a saying amongst those that know the Drow, his people. Deamons and Devils come to the Drow to learn to torture and torment. There are none better. She thought she had known the world of pain, thought she had plummed its depths. She taught him of the Force, of lightsabers and their construction. His mind latched into these teachings like a violent plant, barbed roots growing and feeding his hunger for more. It took nearly a century, but he tore apart her mind one manipulative step after the next. Learning of the wide Galaxy, learning of the ways of the Sith and the Force. Learning just how wrong his people had been. With a poisoned honeyed tongue he tortured her, slowly twisting things, until a century later, she admitted what she was. Simply an apprentice, and he was the Master. He killed her a moment later, crushing her mind and ripping through her Force shadow like the merciless bastard he was, sending her screaming into the flows. A warning to all that he was coming. However, his great plans of galactic domination, of leading a fleet of ships to destroy his pathetic little mother and sisters for the ages of torment they imparted on him fell short. The first stewas to create an army. To recruit. He chose the wrong sector to recruit. The Hutts can be fat, lazy and arrogant, but they also never really enjoy someone messing with what they forsee as their own. Employing Sheshomaru they led him into a trap, his arrogance let them. Explosions of kinetic and light burst through his eyes, ripping into his body and left him a crumpled mass of flesh. He never knew who had betrayed him and led him into the trap. They were long long dead now. He awoke, naked and bound, although quite strangely. A collar around his neck, and another around his sexual organs, a sensor node within them watching constantly. Ready to instantly activate the moment he reached for the Force. The moment he did, pain unlike anything even he had ever known erupted in his mind, in his neck, in his balls. Wracking him with energy that activated every pain nerve in his body all at once, that same energy regenerating those same nerves, so they were always constantly and forever fresh. Ready for violation. An inhibitor was pumped into his body preventing the production of endorphins until the owner of the master controls of the collar decided to let him have even that little bit of relief. For the next thousand years he was held, a fierce but impotent fighter, forced and raped of every bit of pride and goodness. Forced to watch as when he was discovered helping someone, while they were tortured. The rage simply built. Constantly building. They never broke him. They didn’t know him, or his kind. The pain was debilitating, but he had suffered worse. He had watched his favorites raped by his brothers. Been raped by his mother and sister. Given drugs so even if he didn’t want something he had no choice. He could be broken in a moment, but he never forgot that instant that made him what he was. The moment his Sith Mistress had called him Master. At first they tried to get him to fight in the gladiatorial pits. His feline grace, stealth and quiet cold rage kept him alive, quickly becoming a favorite as his fights were always bloody and fierce. Slowly carving apart his opponents. The Fallen Prince that could extend a fight to a thousand cuts, slowly carving away skin and muscle. The thousand cuts was an exaggeration. But he was quite adept at carving a person apart until they could only try and crawl away. After a particularly brutal fight, during which he ended by slaughtering a woman after slicing her apart and setting her afire, he found the theater of the collesium silent. He had found their breaking point. The place where even the bloodthirsty mob didn’t want to see that anymore. One woman however enjoyed his brutality, his sadistic nature so much she bought him outright from the Hutts. He was instantly sickened by the sight of her, the stench of her musk as she rubbed herself against the desk as she bought him. The filth of a woman held his leash, and reveled in licking the blood off of his wounds. Her family has held his leash, using him as their pleasure slave and violating his pride every chance they get for the last eight hundred years. He was not allowed to touch the Force without the price of pain, and this was a closely guarded secret. They reveled in their depravity and enjoyed having a Sith as a slave. But they never told anyone, and he never knew other Sith. He believed he was the last. For centuries he spent his time trying to foil the family, knowing time was on his side. And while the women and men aged and died around him, he stayed the same. A carved perfect statue of masculinity caged and leashed, leased out when he became to difficult or the family needed money. His agility served him well, and the power of a fighter fueled his cold sadistic rages. Enjoying toying with his clients, till they became addicted to what he could give. Until they called him Master. But he never got the collar removed. Slowly he siphoned money into investments, at first it was a small thing, fractions of credits that he earned from those who through them into the ring. The ones hidden where his jailors would not find them, leaving out scraps of his small investments so his owners could find them and take them. Hidden accounts hold his fortunes, while public accounts were kept so that whenever his owners needed money they could raid it. He learned to keep abreast of culture, of learning and science. Slowly learning and becoming a better pleasure slave. Some clients wanted more than just a quick lay. Some wanted to be wooed, some wanted to dance, some wanted music and to be seen with an exotic escort. Always searching for a snippet of power, books of power and mentions of other Sith. But so limited in his efforts that he never could even get a breathe of a whisper out. But he became the best at what he did. Drawing his clients to the height of pleasure, mixing in pain till they screamed in exquisite glorious extasy. He became the seducer, pulling his captors under until they nearly worshiped him. But they wouldn’t release him, they were addicted and no one had a question as to the bloodbath he would create if let free. He learned quickly of the Jedi, but while they might offer him freedom, he quickly realized they were not what he sought. Petty and small minded, unwilling to use their power to dominate the galaxy. Like the olden Knights of the stories of his people, the ones who shoved his kind into the deep dark for being to evil. Simply because they wished to enslave the world, because they themselves were superior. His rages became legendary amongst the slaves, cold dark things that could be felt even by those who did not feel the Force. Sadistic things that left women and men deformed and crippled when they tried to force themselves onto him. They were something that the slaves became scarce around, and soon even those who held his leash turned and went the other way, disappearing where he wouldn’t find them. But while his rages became things of legend, so to did his kindness. Slowly he pushed the boundries of the collar, reaching out with the Force when he could to ease the suffering of those around him. Sneaking off to the kitchen and then library to bring a book and a treat to the slave children. Spending hours simply reading, patiently, enjoying using his cultured deep base voice to do something other than play bedroom games and flirt with women who needed the illusion of playing coy. Even with a pleasure slave that had no choice but to service them. And then they could no longer hide it. Rumors of other Sith. Lords and Ladies. Power. He was not alone. Others, not simply Jedi. Ones with the power and willingness to use it to destroy and dominate. Others he could use to learn more, who would use him in that delicate dance of true Power. More than rumors. Fact as it poured in over the Holonet news. The history of the last century could be nothing but the Sith. Murderers and villains the worlds would call them. His people and only equals he would call them. It was all he needed, and five years ago he won his freedom. He found the pain didn’t phase him anymore. Even when he reached for the Force. A red mist hung over the mansion of his captors as he pulled it down brick by brick, shredding even servants as he reveled in the power. Asking of the Darkside and recieving as he tore life limb from limb, slowly skinning his victims, while they were still alive. Raiding their drug supply so the same drugs that kept his endorphins from working and kept him aware through all their torments kept them aware and feeling every instant of the pain. So they could hear the sickening pop of their joints as he ripped them out of their sockets. The corrupt police could only look on as the place burned from within, bought off with the fortunes of his public accounts. Watch and wait, and listen to the screams. One remarked they did not know what was scarier, the fact that he could do all that... Or that fact that as he walked away in his perfectly tailored black suit, hands in his pockets a completely sated yet bored expression on his face, untouched by a single drop of blood. Untouched by the smoke and unsinged be the fire, his white silken shirt gleaming white in the shadows of that world. The collar was the only thing that was missing, something no one knew what happened to. In truth he regrets that in a fit of rage he had telekinetically turned it into such a fine powder it was unrecognizable as anything else. He has disappeared since then, working in the shadows as nothing but a shadow. Showing a weakness only in buying up slaves, children and older and broken slaves. Beings that would be sent into the slave pits of Kessel, not because of crimes. But because they were second rate, and useless for anything else. These slaves he keeps in a mansion he has acquired on a pleasure planet, disappearing and reappearing as something else, finally using a name close to his own. Though he did change the last name. here the children can play and have a normal life. The slaves are allowed to choose their own lovers, their free time, and while they remain slaves in title, they hardly act it to anyone but the Lord. They seem to fear and love him at the same time. Mostly his time is spent in the dark caves underneath the mansion on the planet of Zeltron, slowly honing skills long lost to the sharpened blade they once were. Practicing first with practice sticks and then with a personalized lightsaber he constructed, using the teachings of his Mistress Lady, and with his Force powers. Only venturing out to silently eliminate threats or disappear when Jedi arrived, or once singly to obtain the parts and jewels in his lightsaber. The parts were simply bought, though on several planets, in several thousand quantities, sent to a dummy corporation. Each different part bought under a different name and a different company. Hidden and able to be used in a variety of things, that part was easy. The hard part was the cystals. Which couldn’t be used for anything but and would lead the Sith and Jedi to him long before he was ready. He would not be an acolyte again. Sorcerer or Marauder. He didn’t need to begin as a Lord. He would earn it. But he would never again call another Master or Mistress. He would bide his time and wait. To craft his lightsabers he needed to find six gems, three for each. The search began, quite appropriately at home. Or as close to home as he would ever get again. The nature of the Kiax nebula created swirls in the Force as well as in the stellar gases, making navigating them nearly impossible. They made navigating them to home impossible for him. The path set out by the ancient race who built the World Sphere that was his home was long lost to him. However, he did now know how the nebula had been created. Several planets had been destroyed in a pair stars had gone supernova, two in particular had been caught in between both gravitic and blast waves, crushing them into bits, and compressing some parts of them into cyrstaline structures. Millenia had shaped these crystaline structures into something he could use, a pair of Qixoni crystals. The next part of his search took him to a planet that was quite nearby, Hoth. Where others of these crystals had fallen, and over the ages absorbed the great deep cold that he felt in his blood. This planet called to him in ways no other would, the music of the great southern glaciers and collumns of frozen ice shooting skyward, where the ice worm tunnels cut winding paths for the wind to sing through sang in his dark heart. It nearly froze him in ways the atmosphere couldn’t. Long enough for a Glacier worm, the ice worm’s big cousin, to crash through the glacier in search of the disturbance of its sleep. The engines had long run cold, and his blood still ran cold, wrapping himself in the Force and stepping into the cracks as he had so long ago in the deep dark of his home, he waited. His reward was several permafrost crystals, of which he harvested them all, but only has used two. These were to make the basis of his sabers, but they were not finished. They would only glow a deep bright blue, the color of the Jedi. Enough to sicken him. He needed more, gems that were of the Dark. Flinging his mind to the Darkside he searched and found them. It didn’t take much to raid the dead world of Alderaan. The Return happened every year, and each year it became more of a tourist trap. Stealth wasn’t even necessary for him as he guided his ship into the belt, following the Darkside. Something Dark had been created here. Crystals buried in the crust had absorbed that great evil act, the thousand screams. To most who listened it was a scream of pain. To the Sadist, it was joy, extasy. A billion lives and more snuffed out. And there they were, gems. He snatched four of them, two his sabers, and two for a gift to be used later. Returning to his mansion he began the long process of assembling his sabers, using the permafrost gems that didn’t match his exacting levels of perfection as practice. Each failure was fed into a fusion furnace, annihilating them. Even the successes. When he finally was happy he paused, beginning a long cleansing process of mind and body. Focusing his rage, cold and dark, focusing the Dark energies, into those crystals. Each was cut and inscribed with dark runes, those sacred dark runes he remembered from his birth, etched in with painstaking care. Down the side of each are the words Myar Ilhar Vith'rell, which he rarely will translate into common for anyone. His intention is to give the extra gems to the current Sith Lords and Ladies when he introduces himself. |
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2:13 AM Jul 11